


Telling Him

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dubious consent (implied), First Kiss, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mary is discussed but not defined, Post HLV, Suggestive Themes, springlock exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As part of the Springlock Exchange 2014.  Thanks to ShinySherlock and Wiggle-of-judas for doing the heavy lifting on the exchange.</p>
<p>For porcupine-girl, who prompted: Moriarty is really back! And he forces Sherlock to admit his romantic love for John. The rest is up to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PorcupineGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcupineGirl/gifts).



Three days after he had boarded a plane and taken off into doomed exile, Sherlock Holmes was sitting across from his brother in the lounge at 221B Baker Street. The walls and mirror were covered in paper, maps, photos and the like. Books and tablets were scattered across the sitting room table and floor. The brothers shared a companionable silence, interrupted only by the clicking of keys, and occasional hums and soft grunts interpreted by each other with ease.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop to find Mycroft’s eyes on his face.

“You should get some sleep, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock smirked and looked back to his screen. “You first.”

Mycroft sighed. “I’ll wake you if anything new comes in. We can take shifts.”

“As I said, you first.”

“Oh, fine then. Run yourself into the ground.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. He pushed back from the table and stretched briefly. 

Sherlock leaned back and regarded his brother steadily for a few moments. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked down at his brother, eyebrows arched.

“It is,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft regained his chair, slowly. “No. No, it’s not. It can’t be.”

“It is.”

"No."

"You must see it."

Mycroft took a deep breath, and then leaned forward, his head in his hands. He looked, Sherlock was startled to realize, sad. Mycroft was sad, and he was allowing him to see it.

“Mycroft?”

After another long moment, Mycroft raised his head, and stared, unseeing, at the yellow cartoon face on the wall. Minutes passed, but Sherlock just watched his brother’s face, noting the unaccustomed emotions barely flickering below the surface. An unfamiliar observer would have thought Mycroft in a trance, or possibly merely bored.

Sherlock was mesmerised. And, he was surprised to realise, not a little afraid.

After another minute, Mycroft began to speak, calmly. “It is. You’re correct. I’ve kept trying, but I cannot deny the data, now that you’ve isolated it. He is…a master. It would take…well. It would take you, wouldn’t it, to find the trail. And this time, even you needed help. You're right. It's Moriarty.”

Sherlock hissed quietly to hear the words.

Mycroft shifted and turned to look into his brother’s face. “There is no sense to this, no logic. He just…played with you. And played you. He hurt you just to hurt you. He let you think him dead, and left you alive as an instrument of destruction. He let you kill, and feel good about the killing. He led you to…” Mycroft paused, and looked down at his hands as they twisted in his lap. “…To nearly destroy John. That is…he is evil.”

Sherlock blinked and leaned back. “Strong words, Mycroft.”

“Only truth in them, I fear.” Mycroft raised his head and regarded his brother steadily. “He is still trying to play with you, but he has changed the rules. If he wanted you dead, he could have easily killed you any number of ways once you were back in Serbia. We would have never seen him coming.” Mycroft swallowed, and looked away from Sherlock’s eyes. “Even had he wanted you…at his mercy, he could have picked you up almost at will. We would have never known where to look. He could have…kept you.” 

Sherlock was closely focused on Mycroft, and so was surprised to feel his own face suddenly flush as the meaning of the words sank in. It was his turn to look away.

Mycroft gave him a moment, and then continued in his regular pensive manner. “Brilliant criminals rarely concern themselves solely with money, Sherlock. You know that. They work with other goals in mind: power, revenge. They may be obsessed, but they are cold. They are focused.” Mycroft gave a brief smirk as he continued. “They are understandable. But this is different, isn’t it.” His tone turned darker as he went on. “He wants you broken, and he wants to take a long time to do it.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded a little rough. “He’s a psychopath with a death wish, Mycroft. Stop being so romantic. He’s a cat, and I’m a particularly resilient rat.” He rose to his feet, and turned to walk toward the window.

“Not too close,” said Mycroft.

“I know,” Sherlock said softly. He stopped a few feet away from the window, looking out at the overcast London sky.

Mycroft observed his brother quietly. This was as intense a conversation as the two of them had ever shared, and he could see that Sherlock was preparing to introduce something even more difficult to consider.

After a minute, Sherlock spoke.

“Mary, then.”

Mycroft sighed. “I don’t know, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock started to turn toward Mycroft, drawing in breath to speak, but Mycroft held a hand up to forestall him. “She has to have some significance, but we can’t tell where any of it starts, or ends. They met right when you moved into Serbia. She had him attached by the time you returned. She was exactly what a man recovering from-“ and here Mycroft gentled his tone, “-heartbreak might want.” Mycroft pretended not to hear Sherlock’s barely swallowed little gasp of pain. After a moment, he went on. “The universe is rarely so lazy, little brother. We just do not know." Mycroft paused to consider his next words. "Your shooting might have been ordered, or it might have been personal. It's all too unclear."

Sherlock stood for a long while, staring into the fireplace. The fire hadn’t been lit. Mycroft suspected that Sherlock didn’t notice. 

“Mycroft.”

“Yes?”

There was a long pause and a deep breath. “He has to be safe. Can you – “ and he stopped and frowned as his voice broke. Another deep breath. “Please. Mycroft. Keep him safe.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’ll do what I can, as I always have. My largest obstacle was always you. But we will do it together, now.” There was no response, but Sherlock tipped his head slightly away, further obscuring his eyes. “Sherlock." Sherlock didn't look around, and Mycroft's eyes opened wide. "Sherlock, what are you thinking? This is not the time for singular heroics. Moriarty slapped his glove across the face of the entire commonwealth this time. We have near infinite resources available to us. Not a single knight against the dragon this time, little brother.”

“You said it yourself. He wants me.” Sherlock didn’t look up. “Dead at his hand, after I’ve begged for the mercy of murder. Or a trophy, locked away, or mangled in whatever manner he fancies. He knows how to reach me. There’s only one way.” At that, Sherlock turned his head partway toward Mycroft and smirked. “Sorry, Mycroft, but you know I’d let you die to see Moriarty ended.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft noted.

“Myself, too,” Sherlock continued. “I would happily die to bring him down. John, though. No. He doesn’t get to have him. He’s gotten too close too many times.” Sherlock looked up at his brother, pleading in his eyes. “He’s a good man. A man of honour. As long as I am here, hiding, he is in danger. He can’t die for me, Mycroft, he just can’t.”

“He would, though,” Mycroft said quietly.

“My point, Mycroft. Sacrifice is in his nature.” Sherlock looked away.

“He loves you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly.

“I am his friend.”

“You are an idiot.”

Mycroft shook his head, suddenly, almost violently. “No. No. We are not having this discussion. You are in my custody, and I will not let you leave the flat. We will fight this war on all fronts with every available weapon, and we will win. He will die, Sherlock, and you will regain your freedom, and…”

“Oh, FUCK YOU, Mycroft Holmes!” Sherlock erupted. “You miserable, cowering, fucking hypocrite! You were willing enough to send me to my death for a lesser cause mere DAYS ago, or have you forgotten? Should I call Lady Smallwood and see if she understands the equation? He will destroy anything in his way to me. He will torture people for fun as a love letter. He would consume a country’s worth of life without a thought, if he thought I would notice.” Sherlock’s voice dropped suddenly, to nearly a whisper. “I don’t know why he is obsessed with me. He has beaten me. He has tricked me, and he knows how to reach me. I should bore him, and maybe I do, but…here we are. It must end.” Sherlock looked at his brother finally, pleadingly, tears threatening in his eyes. “I don’t want to die, Mycroft, and I will endeavour not to, but I must see him finally dead. And you must protect John until it is done. It is that simple.”

Mycroft stared at his brother, shocked at the honest emotion on his face.

“You love him.”

Sherlock flinched, but then looked Mycroft in the eye.

“Of course I do, Mycroft. You aren’t blind. I didn’t kill Magnussen for Mary.”

“And you would die for him.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock sank into the sofa. Mycroft closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then pulled his hand down across his mouth, considering. “You can’t leave him again. You can’t try to trick him. It would kill him this time. You didn’t see him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I know. I learned my lesson, Mycroft. I didn’t know…I didn’t anticipate he would be so affected.” He lowered his head, and ran his hand through his hair. “Christ, Mycroft. Moriarty’s alive and I left John for no good reason. I thought I was dismantling the organization, eliminating the lesser risks to him. I was...I was saving him." Sherlock's voice dropped lower. "I thought of him every single bloody night, imagining him here, at home. Safe. I knew he would grieve, but he would be alive, and he’d get on, and I’d hoped, I had to believe one day we’d be as we had been, if not...” He stopped to draw a deep breath before continuing. “Well. Now he’s with Mary, and there’s the baby, and god knows what the truth is in any of that, and now I’ve put him back in what might be literal crosshairs." Sherlock drew a deep breath, visibly willing himself to continue. "There’s a man who wants to burn the heart out of me, and I’ve been wearing my heart on my fucking sleeve.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to his brother’s face.

“You owe him, Mycroft, if you love me at all. You know he saved me. You know where I was headed before I met him. You owe him the truth about Mary, once you know it. And you will keep him and the baby safe.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and directed his fiercest stare at his brother. “I demand this.”

Mycroft returned the stare. His eyes seemed a bit bright, and his lips were pressed tightly together. Finally, he spoke. “And you?”

“I will tell him everything.” Sherlock looked back to the empty fireplace. “I will tell him where I am going, what I am doing, and why. I will tell him he cannot go, and I will tell him how very lonely I will be without him.” A tear slipped down his cheek. He reached to brush it off, and stared down at the shine on his fingertips. “I will tell him that his friendship has been the most beautiful thing in my life, more than the Work, more than music…” Here he smiled. “Maybe even more than cigarettes. And then I will ask him to kiss his daughter for me, and maybe one day, to tell her the stories of our time together.”

Mycroft had given up the illusion of restraint. He stared, openly, at the man before him, who in breaking had found strength neither could have once imagined. He…god. He admired him. His baby brother had become the finest man he had ever known.

Christ, he would miss him.

Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat. “What do you want me to do?”

Sherlock lifted his head and gave his familiar half-smile. “Will you go get John? Don’t kidnap him, just invite him to come, and bring him here.” Sherlock gestured to the armchairs before the fireplace. “We should talk here. Will you do that for me, please? Just bring John to me?”

A man’s voice came from the hallway, outside the door to the flat. “He won’t have to. I’m already here.”

John Watson entered the flat, strode up to the sofa, and stood before Sherlock, forcing Sherlock to look up at him. His eyes shone, but his hands were steady. He put his hands on his hips and regarded Sherlock for a moment, head cocked, considering.

Finally, he spoke.

“Sociopath, my arse. You magnificent bastard.” And in one smooth movement, John seized Sherlock’s jacket, leaned down, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Porcupine-girl, thank you for a great prompt. I haven't written fiction in (mumbled double-digit number) years, I hope I haven't tortured it all too badly. Cheers!


End file.
